Point of Danger (Triple Threat #1) - Irene Hannon Page 0,94
use all the guidance he could get.
“No, you didn’t. Your take is spot-on. There are just some . . . issues.”
“Other than the danger-on-the-job one we talked about?”
“Yeah.”
“You want my advice? Don’t overthink it or create complications where they don’t exist. If you like the woman, go with your gut. Or, as my wife would more genteelly put it, follow your heart.” He motioned toward the warehouse. “Let’s do a walk-through.”
It took Brent a second to switch gears. “Will Hank be okay with that?”
Colin grinned. “No. But we’ll put on booties and gloves and keep our distance.” He struck off for the building.
Brent fell in behind him. The crime scene deserved his full attention until they were done with their assessment.
But after that, he’d have to give Colin’s advice serious deliberation. Eve was sure to bring up the subject again tomorrow over their cold drinks, and he couldn’t keep putting her off.
In the interim, though, a few prayers for guidance—like a definitive sign from above—wouldn’t hurt. Because with every encounter, her appeal grew . . . and the thought of letting her go was getting harder and harder to stomach.
Meaning he had to come to a reasoned decision soon, before the left side of his brain shut down.
An imminent possibility if he continued to fall for the lovely radio personality at his current breakneck pace.
Life stunk.
Steve eased his recliner back and stared at the ceiling.
His broken ankle was aching.
Meg had cleared out, so there was no one to wait on him.
His high-priced attorney wasn’t making any guarantees about getting him off the hook, thanks to a stupid nine-year-old witness. The man had already broached the idea of a plea bargain.
And Candy had dumped him.
As Friday nights went, this one sucked.
He didn’t even have much food in the house. A can of soup would have to suffice for dinner—unless he ordered a takeout pizza. That wasn’t—
The landline began to ring.
He started to struggle to his feet. Stopped. Why answer? Everyone important had his cell number.
Sinking back in the chair, he picked up his phone from the table beside him, scrolled through for the pizza joint’s number, and placed his order as the landline went silent.
Fifteen minutes later, it rang again.
He ignored it.
Fifteen minutes after that, as he heaved himself to his feet to answer the door for the pizza delivery, it trilled a third time.
Weird.
Someone must really want to talk to him.
He paid the delivery guy, clumped into the kitchen, and rummaged around in the fridge for a beer. That supply was running low too. He’d have to go to the grocery store tomorrow and restock. That chore wouldn’t be fun with this cast, but—
The landline rang again.
Muttering a curse, he limped to the wall, snatched the phone off the hook, and snapped out a greeting.
“Steve Jackson?”
The deep voice was muffled, as if someone was speaking through several layers of cloth.
“Yeah. Who is this?”
“You have legal difficulties. I have information that can help you.”
He studied the cracked pane of glass in the back window that Meg had been after him for weeks to fix. “Who is this?”
“That’s not important. But what I have may keep you out of jail.”
Was this for real—or someone’s idea of a sick joke?
“What do you have?”
“I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”
Steve frowned. The whole tenor of this call felt . . . off. Maybe the press coverage was bringing out a bunch of nutcases—or people who were up to no good. The last thing he needed was more problems.
“Why don’t I give you my lawyer’s—”
“No.” The caller’s tone sharpened. “I’m not dealing with anyone but you. If you don’t want my information, fine.”
Steve leaned against the counter, taking his weight off his bum ankle, mind racing.
Was it possible this person did have a nugget that would help his defense? It wasn’t as if he was innocent—but the case was circumstantial except for the kid, and his lawyer ought to be able to undermine a nine-year-old’s credibility. However, it wouldn’t hurt to have a piece of tangible evidence that further chipped away at the prosecution’s claims.
“Fine. You can come by whenever—”
“No. We have to meet at a neutral place. No witnesses. I’ll give you directions.” The caller began spewing out instructions.
“Whoa! I have to write this down. Give me a minute to get a pen and paper.”
“Hurry. I’m not staying on the line long.”
Steve moved as fast as he could to the bill drawer and pulled out a blank envelope and a pen. “Ready.”